


The Love Song of Dr. John H. Watson

by Kate_Lear



Series: Love Songs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes Sherlock out for the evening on Valentine's Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love Song of Dr. John H. Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much to [innie_darling](http://innie-darling.livejournal.com/) and [ginbitch](http://ginbitch.livejournal.com/) for their tremendously helpful beta-reading, and suggestions, and patience with my endless iterations of ‘So, I was thinking…’ The title and the quote at the start are both from [_The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_](http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Love_Song_of_J._Alfred_Prufrock) by T. S. Eliot.
> 
>  **ETA:** This has now been translated into Chinese by qinwuxin1978, available [here](http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=1166) and [here](http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=44653&extra=page%3D1)

_‘Let us go then, you and I,_  
When the evening is spread out against the sky  
Like a patient etherised upon a table;  
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,  
[…]  
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”  
Let us go and make our visit.’ 

Almost everyone who encounters him, including the entirety of the Met, thinks that Sherlock Holmes is a heartless bastard. Brilliant, but ultimately heartless. John would have to be an idiot not to see _why_ they think that; after all, he’d briefly held the same opinion until events proved him wrong.

But now that he knows him a bit better he sees that Sherlock is as human as the rest of them, for all that he hides it well, and that he has two great loves in his life, twin reference points around which the rest of his world revolves.

(It might be three; John _hopes_ it’s three, but their relationship is still in its infancy and so John hopes but doesn’t yet dare to count his unhatched chickens).

It’s not the violin. It’s certainly true that Sherlock is a tremendously skilled player, and will often lose himself for hours in the music, but John has also known him to be quite content not to touch it for days when he’s happy and absorbed in a case. It’s not cocaine either; Sherlock only seems to want the drug when he’s in between cases and complaining bitterly that he’s about to _die_ of boredom.

No.

The first of Sherlock’s loves, unsurprisingly, is the puzzle presented by a new case. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a bloody, gory murder: on one occasion a client came to Sherlock wanting to know whether he could sue the supermarket over a chip of glass he’d found in his frozen chicken. The look on Sherlock’s face at being treated as a compensation advisory service would have stripped paint but, once the glass chip was rinsed under the tap, it had turned out to the blue carbuncle of Lady Something-or-Other that had disappeared six months previously. Sherlock had come to life before John’s eyes, aglow with the thrill of the chase, and had been as happy as a mud lark for three days until the case was solved, and all without either of them seeing a single dead body (other than that of the chicken).

For Sherlock, it’s all about the puzzle and the chase. When they'd found the thief, a triumphant Sherlock had wrung the full story out of him before, to John’s astonishment, apparently losing interest.

‘You’re not going to contact Lestrade?’ John asked, running to catch up as Sherlock turned on his heel and strode off, the culprit sobbing with relief behind them. ‘You’re just going to let him go?’

‘That wretch? Put him in prison now and you’ll make a criminal of him for life,’ Sherlock said distantly, fingers already flying on his phone as he answered a text from Lestrade. ‘After this, I can guarantee you he’ll never so much as break the speed limit.’

An easy guarantee to fling out, since Sherlock knew very well that John had no way of checking, but as John remembered how Mr Ryder had wept and snivelled and got down on his knees, he couldn’t help feeling that Sherlock was right.

The other great love of Sherlock’s life, John has come to realise, is London itself, in all its busy, dirty, loud, sparkling glory. Sherlock loves to be at the centre of it, like a spider sitting in his web, and he knows it like another person would know the body of their lover, like John is slowly getting to know Sherlock’s.

John once mentioned how much he missed the shaami kabobs that they occasionally used to buy in the local village near his base in Afghanistan. Sherlock had merely grunted in reply, but the following week they had ended up having dinner in a small, dingy restaurant that John had never seen before, for all that he had spent several years as a penniless medical student and thought he knew most of the cheap places to eat in the city. The interior was as shabby as the exterior, but the food was so good that, when he took his first bite of the spiced lamb, John could almost feel the heat of the desert sun and hear the babble of various languages in the souk around him. John can’t even begin to picture Sherlock anywhere else than in his beloved city.

Which is why, on a certain February evening, John is standing at the bar in a certain pub and sipping at a pint, trying to calm the butterflies in his stomach as he waits for Sherlock. He’s just enough of a romantic to want to do something to mark today, although he’d had a hell of a job thinking of something that would please an utterly brilliant, utterly bonkers, slightly morbid consulting detective.

(John supposes that Sherlock is now officially his boyfriend, and that he really ought to start mentally referring to him as such. He doesn’t like the word; it feels too juvenile. Given that Sherlock refers to his own brother as his arch-enemy and, by his own admission, ‘doesn’t have friends’, John hasn’t yet felt up to the ordeal of asking Sherlock how he mentally refers to him.)

Anything traditionally romantic for this evening was right out; for the past three weeks Sherlock had been scowling at the pink hearts festooning shop windows as though they had personally offended him. John had toyed briefly with the idea of having twenty-four hours of no restrictions on the kitchen experiments, before discarding the idea for the sake of Mrs Hudson’s sanity. Finally, when he was almost at his wits’ end, this idea had occurred to him.

The pub door bangs open, letting in a swirl of cold air and also a swirl of Sherlock, who barely scans the crowd before making straight for John.

‘I got your text,’ he says, with no greeting or preamble. ‘Are you all right? What’s going on?’

‘Nothing urgent,’ John says immediately, trying to calm the nervous tension radiating off Sherlock. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been _quite_ so succinct in his request for Sherlock to meet him, but nervousness had rendered him incapable of being more articulate. ‘You haven’t brought my gun, have you?’

‘No, you said not to.’

‘Good,’ John says fervently. It’s highly unlikely that they’ll be searched by the police tonight – although with Sherlock that’s never the same as impossible – but if they are then an unregistered firearm is going to provoke an awful lot of questions. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. What’ll it be?’

‘Why?’ Sherlock sounds suspicious and John rolls his eyes.

‘Because it’s the fourteenth of February and apparently, to celebrate this date, people who like each other go out and have a good time. Drinks are bought, and I’m reliably informed that food is often consumed.’ Eyes narrowing, Sherlock opens his mouth, doubtless to protest, and John interrupts, ‘To celebrate Lupercalia.’

Sherlock shuts his mouth. His lips twitch, like he wants to laugh. ‘That’s why we’re here? For Lupercalia, and not for–’

‘No, not for… anything else,’ John says. ‘Lupercalia’s a very important festival. Or at least it was, to millions of ancient Romans.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ says Sherlock, even though he’s smiling.

And, without missing a beat, John answers, ‘True. I mean, what have the Romans ever done for us?’

‘ _What?_ ’ Sherlock frowns in utter mystification and oh hell, John has never, _ever_ wanted to make Sherlock feel like a freak for his inability to follow pop culture references, but that one slipped out before he could stop himself.

Flustered, and trying to divert Sherlock’s attention away from his nervous slip of the tongue, he says, ‘Look, will you just let me buy you a bloody drink?’, and Sherlock raises a sardonic eyebrow at him and condescends to order a glass of wine.

Against Sherlock’s pale fingers, the rich, red liquid looks a bit like blood, and John thinks idly that it’s sort of appropriate, given the evening he’s got planned. Sherlock still looks slightly tense as he takes a sip and, to distract him, John nods towards the shadowy back of the pub and says, ‘You know, they used to sell bodies in this pub. When the banks of the Thames were wider, it used to be on the riverbank and the patrons used to fish out corpses from the river and sell them to medical schools.’

‘ _Did_ they?’

The distraction works: Sherlock’s face lights up and he looks so intrigued that John feels moved to clarify, ‘I don’t actually think that they still do. But back in the day… yeah.’

‘It would save fetching one from the morgue,’ Sherlock says, arching an eyebrow.

‘Sherlock, if you think I’m going to let you keep a human corpse in the flat then you really _are_ an idiot. The fridge is bad enough, but– Actually, no. No, I’m not even going to get into this with you. Now come on, drink up.’ John takes a gulp of his pint to illustrate. ‘We’re on a schedule.’

The people nearest them at the bar have started to glance over at them nervously and besides, this evening Sherlock and he have miles to go before they sleep. Assuming that Sherlock is in the mood to go along with what John’s planned. John thinks, not for the first time since he’d started preparing for this evening, that this is quite possibly most bizarre courtship he’s ever attempted. However, it feels right that it’s so unique. For this brilliant man, unlike anyone else that John has ever met, he couldn’t imagine it being any other way.

Outside, John turns right, and then right again, and starts walking briskly northward along Garnet Street. Sherlock follows, silent and unquestioning. Clearly he knows John’s innate stubbornness well enough by now to realise that if John hasn’t elaborated on what said ‘schedule’ involves, then no amount of interrogation is going to pry it out of him. As a result, John can almost hear Sherlock’s brain whirring as he attempts to deduce what John’s up to, and every time they walk past a restaurant with couples sitting at cosy tables for two in the window he sees Sherlock tense out of the corner of his eye. Despite the joke about Lupercalia, Sherlock knows very well what today is and is obviously bracing himself for the probability that John will want to acknowledge it somehow. And he does, but John knows better than to get Sherlock Holmes chocolates or flowers (unless they contain a deadly compound hitherto unknown to science).

Therefore, five minutes later, he stops abruptly (surprising Sherlock, who almost walks into him), turns, and says, ‘On this street, there used to be a pub called The King’s Arms. And, in 1811, an unknown assailant murdered the three people who lived above it. A man called John Williams was arrested for it at the time, but died while awaiting trial. Later analysis of the evidence suggests that they had the wrong man.’

Sherlock’s surprise has been replaced by bright-eyed interest and he’s nodding as John speaks.

‘Of course, the Ratcliff Highway murders,’ he says. ‘It was an incompetent shambles.’

John nods. It was. Only most basic police force existed – the creation of the Met was still several years in the future – and the pressure for the local magistrates to arrest someone had been unbelievably high.

‘Come on,’ he says, pulling at Sherlock’s arm. He starts walking again, and fifteen minutes later they stop where Commercial Road meets Cannon Street Road. John pulls Sherlock into a doorway, out of the path of the pedestrian traffic, and points to the centre of the busy four-way junction.

‘And over there,’ he says, raising his voice a little to be heard over the noise of the cars and buses, ‘under the crossroads, the body of John Williams was buried with a stake through his heart.’

‘The traditional method for dealing with supposed “agents of the Devil”,’ Sherlock says, the scorn for such superstition evident in his voice.

‘They found him in 1886 when a gas company were digging up the road,’ John continues. ‘No-one’s sure what happened to the body, but the landlord of the pub on the corner kept his skull as a souvenir, and gave it to the next landlord after him.’

Sherlock grins widely at that. ‘See, I told you that having a skull to talk to wasn’t that strange.’

‘Um, no, actually, it’s still a bit strange,’ John says, carefully straight-faced, and adds affectionately, ‘but apparently I seem to quite like that sort of thing. No, come on,’ as Sherlock makes to leave their doorway in the direction of the pub, ‘you can come back another time. Hell, bring _your_ skull for a visit; I’m sure the four of you will have a great time.’

John can feel Sherlock scrutinising him as they cross the road and start up New Road but he doesn’t say anything, just keeps moving northward again until they come to a brick building that looks no different from any of the others in the area. Certainly no hint of its grisly past is visible from the outside.

‘In here, in 1874, a brush-maker called Henry Wainwright murdered Harriet Lane, his mistress, and stored her body under the floor of the warehouse for a year. When he eventually decided to move it, he dug it up, dismembered it, and then transported it in a hansom cab across London with the intention of dumping it elsewhere in London.’

‘Daring,’ Sherlock breathes.

‘Yeah. Apparently his apprentice boy ran across the city following the cab, trying to convince police constables to stop it and look inside, but none of them listened to him. At least they didn’t at first; eventually a couple of them did.’

Sherlock’s small huff speaks volumes of disdain for the police. Pointing in the opposite direction, John says, ‘And down that way, past the hospital, is a pub called The Blind Beggar where Ronnie Kray shot George Cornell. Coincidentally, it’s just round the corner from one of the murder sites of Jack the Ripper.’ Or perhaps not so coincidentally, John thinks. The East End has always had a history of slums and poverty, and so it’s hardly surprising that crime follows close behind. ‘Anyway…’

He starts walking again but Sherlock grips his arm, not tightly but definitely preventing him from going any further, and asks, ‘John. What are you doing?’ in a tone that says very clearly that he’s not going one step further until he gets an answer.

John turns, feeling nervous. He knew that, once he’d started, it wouldn’t take long before Sherlock demanded an explanation, and now he wets his lips and clears his throat, hoping that Sherlock will at least listen all the way through before dismissing the idea as a ridiculous waste of time.

‘I thought that you might like to visit parts of the city. I mean, you’ve obviously walked around it a lot – you know it like the back of your hand – and I thought that you might find it interesting to see where famous crimes happened. Even though I’m sure that you know it all already, and that I don’t need to tell you, but… yeah.’ John’s voice trails off and he shrugs helplessly. Sherlock is examining him as though he’s grown a second head, and John says, all in a rush: ‘I mean, we don’t have to. If you want then we can just go home and watch a film, or you can get on with your experiments, or… whatever.’

‘So you’re saying,’ Sherlock begins slowly, sounding as though he’s assembling each sentence in his head before it comes out of his mouth, ‘that you actually _don’t_ want to go to a restaurant, or for a walk by the river, or anything like that. Instead you’d rather drag me around centuries-old crime scenes?’

Sherlock is frowning incredulously, and John feels a hot prickle of embarrassment on the back of his neck.

‘You’re right, I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea,’ he says, swallowing his disappointment. ‘It’s not like there’s anything much to look at, really, it’s just some old buildings. Come on, there’s a taxi rank over there, we can head back to–’

Sherlock surges forward, coat billowing around him, and catches John’s face in his hands for a kiss. It’s a brief, too-hard press of lips, and it’s over before John gets a chance to really respond, but when Sherlock pulls back he’s flushed and smiling like Christmas and New Year have both come at once.

‘You’re _wonderful_ ,’ Sherlock breathes. ‘God, you’re… you’re _perfect._ ’

And then John is being dragged into the forgiving shadows of the small alley next to them ( _Vine Court_ , his mind supplies helpfully, courtesy of all that time spent studying Google Maps so he’d be able to find his way this evening without any wrong turns) and Sherlock pushes him up against the wall and kisses him like he’s starving for him.

It’s hot and frantic and amazing, with Sherlock all but attacking his mouth and cradling his head in one long-fingered hand to cushion it against the bricks. When Sherlock’s other hand wanders down to grope his arse, making heat pool between his legs, it takes a lot of willpower for John to grip Sherlock’s wrist and gasp, ‘Slow down.’

Sherlock pushes his face into the side of his neck, nuzzling at the spot that always makes his knees quiver, and John insists, sounding a bit strained, ‘I mean it. We’re not having sex in an alley, and _especially_ not one that’s next door to where a mad Victorian murderer once dismembered the rotting remains of his lover.’

Disconcertingly, this doesn’t seem to put Sherlock off in the slightest, but when John pushes at him he steps back with a reluctance that makes something warm uncurl just beneath John’s ribcage. John instantly misses the solid heat against his front – the skies are clear and the evening is chilly – but his insides warm still further when Sherlock asks, ‘So where are we going next?’

‘You want to do this, then?’

‘Of course.’ Sherlock’s eyes are sparkling and he’s positively vibrating with gleeful impatience. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are slightly parted, and John has to forcibly prevent himself from hauling him back in for another kiss. Instead he says, ‘Well, I thought we could go up to–’

‘No,’ Sherlock interrupts. ‘No, don’t tell me. Just go.’

And John does. He leads them along Mile End Road and up Great Eastern Street, pointing out various streets branching off them where the victims of Jack the Ripper lived and, later, died. Glancing at the brightly-lit shops and restaurants, it seems hard to believe that this area used to be a notorious slum, but a good look at how narrow and densely packed the side-streets are makes the other, older London seem much closer. The London of rookeries, and gaslight, and a terrifying serial killer, who seemed to strike at will and then melt away into the city’s teeming populace.

They don’t spend long walking around the locations of the Ripper murders. John is no stranger to blood and violence, but something about the feral, concentrated _savagery_ in the attacks makes him uneasy even now, and not inclined to linger.

He pulls Sherlock away from the mouth of the alleyway that used to be Dorset Street – the ‘worst street in London’, according to more than one Victorian philanthropist – and, in response to his hopeful look, says, ‘Don’t look at me like that, the answer’s still no,’ as he marches them both up the street towards the brightly welcoming lights of the pub. John’s sure that Sherlock will realise the crime connection and he’s not disappointed; Sherlock’s face brightens once he’s close enough to read the sign. It’s The Ten Bells – the pub where the Ripper allegedly first spotted several of his victims.

There’s a taxi rank nearby, and as they climb into one, John says, ‘The Norman Shaw Buildings down on Victoria Embankment, please,’ and sinks back against the seat as the car pulls away.

Sherlock doesn’t speak during the ride, but his hand rests warmly on John’s leg for the duration and every time John looks over at him he’s smiling.

\----------

A short while later, the taxi judders to a halt. They’re at the Victoria Embankment and John gets out, Sherlock following, and leans back in to pay the fare and thank the driver.

‘You’re welcome, mate,’ he replies, politer than most of the cabbies that John’s met so far in London, even the non-serial killers. ‘You two enjoy your evening. Nice one for a walk.’

It is indeed a nice evening for a walk, although a bit chilly: the sun has just set and the western sky is still tinged golden and pink. In front of them, the Norman Shaw buildings rise high and imposing, their red brick and fancy architecture designed to intimidate all the criminals who’ve been dragged through the ornate doors over the years.

‘This building,’ John says, turning to Sherlock as the car drives off, ‘used to be the headquarters of the Met. And when it was being built, in 1888, an unidentified female torso was found in the basement one day when the builders arrived for work.’

‘A taunt.’

‘Seemed like it. It was originally assumed to be part of the Ripper murders, but not any more. They never did find out who the culprit was.’

Sherlock snorts derisively. ‘Of _course_ they didn’t.’

‘One more thing,’ John bites his lip, grinning madly and feeling vaguely like he oughtn’t to be getting as much amusement out of this as he is. ‘You’ll never guess what the head of the Criminal Investigation Department was called back then.’

A tiny, irritated frown pulls at Sherlock’s eyebrows. ‘Well, how should I know? It’s not as though it’s relevant to… Unless…’ suddenly his eyes widen and he looks at John. ‘No…’

‘Yes.’ John can’t hold back any longer, and starts giggling as he says, ‘Anderson.’

Sherlock’s exultant crow at this mingles with John’s laughter. ‘Scotland Yard found a body in the cellar of their own bloody headquarters and couldn’t work out where it came from, _and_ they were being led by a man called Anderson!’

‘Yep.’

John suspects that this might come up at the next crime scene Sherlock is called to, and he spares a moment to hope that Lestrade won’t be too annoyed with him for giving Sherlock this ammunition. He tugs Sherlock with him as he starts walking, towards Big Ben and Westminster, dodging through gaggles of camera-wielding tourists at the famous abbey and down towards the new location of Scotland Yard.

They stop outside the tall, glass-fronted building and John looks over to see Sherlock smiling at him, not paying any attention at all to where they are. John feels his heart stutter at the intensity in Sherlock’s look and the softness around his eyes, and he tries to sound casual and not stammer like a teenager with his first crush as he says, ‘I suppose you know all about the Black Museum here, yes?’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock’s expression turns regretful. ‘Lestrade told me that they closed it down just before he joined the Met, and auctioned off all the items for charity.’

Bloody hell. Coppers really _do_ make the best liars, because Lestrade was clearly so convincing that Sherlock has never bothered to double-check his story online, and John smirks a little as he says, ‘Really? Gosh. Can’t imagine why he would have told you that.’

‘What? Hang on, do you mean it’s _still there?_ ’

Sherlock sounds amazed and indignant, and when John grins and nods, he starts towards the door.

‘No, not now,’ says John, catching his arm and pulling him back yet again. ‘We’ll come back another time. I’ll make sandwiches; it’ll be a fun day out.’

The irony is lost on Sherlock, who’s staring at the building as though he can see through walls and into the fabled museum.

‘They’ve got the letters from Jack the Ripper.’ John can’t resist tormenting Sherlock, just a bit. ‘And Charles Black’s counterfeiting equipment.’ At this, Sherlock makes a noise that John has previously only heard when they’re in bed and Sherlock is about two seconds from coming, and John can’t help but mutter, ‘You know, just for the record, I’m a bit disturbed by how excited this is making you.’

He’s fairly sure that Sherlock isn’t even paying attention to him any more, but when Sherlock replies distractedly, ‘You won’t be complaining later on,’ he laughs.

And a short time later, as they’re zigzagging through St James’ Park on their way up to Trafalgar Square, John leans close and murmurs, ‘Apparently, back in the 1800s, this was the place to come if you were gay and wanted to pick up a soldier.’

In the last of the dusk light, he sees Sherlock’s teeth flash in a grin.

‘Is that so?’ Sherlock’s deep, almost-bored tone is belied by the arm that suddenly catches him around the waist and jerks him sideways. Startled, John stumbles at first, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to wrap his arms tightly around him under the pretence of steadying him as he pulls him into a kiss.

‘It is,’ John confirms, after a breathless few minutes. One of Sherlock’s hands is buried in John’s hair again – he needs a haircut, but suspects that Sherlock likes it a bit longer as lately he’s been a lot more forward about touching it and carding his fingers through it – and his other arm is low and snug around John’s waist. It feels wonderful but they can’t stay here all evening, and so John detaches himself regretfully and says, ‘Come on.’

When they reach Trafalgar Square, Sherlock glances expectantly at the National Gallery, illuminated and looking stately against the night sky. He’s obviously expecting a tale of art theft but, instead, John steers him over to a squat stone pillar in the south-east corner, ignored by all the pedestrians hurrying past.

‘This is–’

‘The smallest police station in London, I know,’ Sherlock says unexpectedly.

John is surprised. All the times he’s passed through Trafalgar Square, he’s never noticed it until he read about it and knew what he was looking for. He asks, ‘How do you know that?’

‘Lestrade once threatened to lock me in there unless I stopped…’ Sherlock’s eyes flick a glance at John before he evasively says, ‘certain recreational activities.’

John grins approvingly, making Sherlock narrow his eyes at him. John likes Lestrade; he’s one of a small group of people who actually care about _Sherlock_ , and not just about what he can do for them.

‘Well at least you wouldn’t have been lonely. Apparently there’s a direct phone line to Scotland Yard.’

The minute it’s out of his mouth, John realises what he’s said. He mentally curses himself as Sherlock’s face lights up and he surges forward, one hand flying to the pocket where John knows he keeps his roll of lockpicks.

‘No! Sherlock, no.’ John intercepts him before he can set to work at the door. ‘There _was_ a direct phone line; it’s since been disconnected.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ John lies firmly and unhesitatingly. In truth, he has no idea whether it still works or not, but Lestrade really _will_ kill him if he gives Sherlock any more ways to pester Scotland Yard than he already has. As it is, John suspects that he’ll have to buy Lestrade quite a few drinks to make up for telling Sherlock about the Black Museum’s continued existence; he knows that Sherlock won’t be content until he’s nagged Lestrade into letting him remove each artefact from its case and examine it.

And then Sherlock twists like an eel in John’s grip and John abruptly forgets that train of thought. He’s being pushed back against the wall next to the tiny station and Sherlock is kissing him again, his mouth already open and his tongue brushing against John’s lips in a fleeting caress. Sherlock’s hands have tucked themselves into the back pockets of his jeans, shielded from public view by the shadow cast by the wall, and by the great flapping wings of Sherlock’s coat that billows around them both. John slides his hands inside Sherlock’s suit jacket and flattens his palms against Sherlock’s waist, warm and supple through his thin shirt. In retaliation, Sherlock pulls John’s shirt out of the back of his trousers and puts his cool fingertips against the skin at the base of John’s spine, and John’s eyes close as he makes a soft noise into Sherlock’s mouth.

‘I believe that there’s something else that’s also traditional on… Lupercalia,’ Sherlock murmurs as he nips at John’s jaw. ‘Are we doing that, too?’

‘Yes,’ says John, voice shaky and caught somewhere between laughter at Sherlock’s sudden enthusiasm for ancient Roman practices and desire as Sherlock’s fingers dip briefly underneath the waistband of his jeans. ‘We are _absolutely_ doing that.’

Sherlock hums in pleasure, deep in his throat, and presses, ‘When?’

‘Well… we could go back now, but I was thinking of taking you up to Euston Square first.’

‘Oh? What’s in Euston Square?’

Sherlock comes back up for another kiss, stroking his fingertips lightly against the side of John’s neck, and John tries to keep talking. ‘The body of a man, on the campus of University College London, who had himself stuffed when he died.’

That really isn’t a phrase that John has _ever_ imagined he would say while his lover was nuzzling at his mouth, but then he’s never been with anyone even remotely like Sherlock, who leans back looking amazed and delighted, although his hands don’t move from where they’re splayed against John’s back and neck.

‘ _Stuffed?_ ’

‘Yeah. Jeremy Bentham, one of the founders of the university.’

Sherlock bites his lip and John can see the indecision on his face: sex with John in the immediate future, or going to see a stuffed, preserved corpse. John supposes dryly that he ought to be flattered at the conflict this is causing, and then he puts Sherlock out of his misery and offers, ‘Well, he’s stuffed; it’s not as though he’s going anywhere. I’ll take you up there next weekend, if you want.’

‘ _Will_ you?’

Sherlock looks like Christmas has come early, and John laughs. ‘Yes, you daft bugger. Of course. Now come on, let’s go home.’

After one last quick, hard kiss, Sherlock unwraps himself from John, who tugs his jacket straight and then follows Sherlock as he strides purposefully away, now clearly set on returning to Baker Street as soon as possible.

They flag down another taxi very quickly: Sherlock, when properly motivated, is almost uncannily good at summoning black cabs. John says, ‘Corner of Baker Street and Oxford Street, please,’ and then sits back, Sherlock immediately leaning against him and almost squashing him into the door.

‘I see they’re making taxi seats narrower these days,’ John teases, even as he settles his arm along the back of the seat behind Sherlock’s shoulders.

He isn’t surprised when Sherlock ignores this in favour of asking, ‘Where did you find all this information?’

John shrugs. ‘Wikipedia. The local library. It was surprisingly easy, once I got into it. There were actually so many interesting places that I had more of a problem deciding where _not_ to go. I thought about taking you to see Crippen’s house, up in Camden, but it would have been a bit too far out of our way for this evening.’

Sherlock only murmurs, ‘I know,’ but John sees a flash of disappointment on his face and mentally adds it to his list of Things To Suggest Next Time Sherlock Is Bored. It’s a woefully short list and John is always on the look-out for things to add to it because, when he’s not lashing out viciously at everyone around him, Sherlock being bored and depressed is one of the saddest things John has ever seen.

 _Right then,_ he thinks. _We’ll do a romantic evening out. Just you, me, and the house where Crippen murdered his wife. You’ll love it, and I’ll love watching you._

Oblivious to John’s thoughts, Sherlock says, ‘You know, there’s some debate about whether or not he actually intended to kill her.’

John asks, ‘Is there?’ and Sherlock tries to squirm impossibly closer, letting his hand rest on John’s leg as he begins to elaborate.

\----------

The rest of the ride passes quickly, with the recounting of contradictory pieces of evidence and investigations, and John is almost surprised when the taxi pulls over.

As they turn up Baker Street, walking towards home, Sherlock’s shoulder bumps John’s. John thinks it’s an accident, although Sherlock is usually very sure-footed, but then Sherlock’s fingers softly fold themselves around John’s and he knows it wasn’t. Sherlock isn’t really one for public displays of affection; John knew this at the start and it’s fine, since he isn’t either. However, when cases are scarce and John can see Sherlock’s longing for a drug-induced respite from the monotony almost visibly crawling over his skin, and Sherlock has scathingly rejected all John’s attempts at distraction, John has occasionally wondered in despair if Sherlock would even notice if he wasn’t there. It’s nice to see that, apparently, he would.

They reach their front door, and John uses the feel of Sherlock’s hand in his own to bolster his courage for the next bit. He isn’t entirely sure that Sherlock won’t dismiss it as irrelevant, but he wants to say it anyway, and so when Sherlock reaches for his keys John moves in front of him to stand on their doorstep. This puts them almost exactly on the same level, so close that their bodies are almost brushing, and John says, ‘This is the last stop.’

‘I know,’ Sherlock rumbles, an anticipatory glint in his eyes that gives John goosebumps.

‘No,’ John tries again, ‘I mean the last crime-related stop.’

Sherlock’s dark-eyed, intent look is replaced by wariness. ‘John… if this is about the thing under the sofa then I assure you I can explain.’

John is completely derailed, and more than a little alarmed. ‘ _What_ thing under the sofa?’

‘Oh. Nothing.’ Sherlock’s face becomes a picture of limpid innocence. ‘Sorry, please go on. What were you saying?’

The romantic mood has all but evaporated, but John firmly stops his new mental horror film of What Lies Beneath The Sofa and tries again. God, this makes him feel like an idiot, but now that he’s started he has to say it or Sherlock won’t leave him alone until he’s worried it out of him.

‘What I was going to say was that this isn’t a crime scene. Or at least,’ he glares briefly at Sherlock, ‘not to my knowledge. But, in the Victorian era, it would have been.’ Sherlock’s eyes are impassive and John can’t look at them – those eyes that are curiously not-blue and not-green and not-grey, but that _are_ able to read him like a book – as he finishes, ‘In 1895, Oscar Wilde was given two years’ imprisonment for being in love with another man, and I just thought… well, I just thought that… we’re lucky.’

His face feels warm with embarrassment when he finishes, and he wonders why the hell he thought that such a depressing fact would be a good one finish the evening with, but then Sherlock closes the short distance between them for a kiss. It’s just a light brush at first, but then he comes back for another, firmer press, coaxing John’s mouth open with his own. His arms slide around John’s waist, pulling them closer together, and John thinks dizzily that maybe it wasn’t that bad after all.

Relief makes him shiver, just a little, and the next instant Sherlock’s arms are leaving his waist and fumbling for the loose edges of his long coat, pressing John closer and folding him into his embrace as he wraps the heavy wool around him. The edges don’t quite meet behind him – the coat was only designed to be worn by one person at a time, after all – but the gesture is very much appreciated. It feels like an intimate cocoon, like the pair of them are tucked away from the world, and John burrows closer to Sherlock, loving the warmth of him.

‘It would be worth it,’ Sherlock says brusquely, leaving off from kissing John to nose at the hair above his cold ear and murmur roughly into it: ‘It would be worth it, for this,’ and John feels a warm flutter of affection in his stomach, because that’s possibly the most romantic thing that Sherlock has ever said to him.

Keeping hold of the coat with one hand, Sherlock reaches into John’s pocket with the other, groping around a bit more than is strictly necessary to find his keys. When their front door swings open behind John, Sherlock breathes, ‘Inside’ against his mouth as he unwraps his coat and pointedly nudges John backwards.

Upstairs, in their flat, Sherlock closes the door behind himself and hangs his coat up. As John pulls off his own jacket, he can feel Sherlock’s gaze on him like an almost physical weight, and after he’s hung it up Sherlock is crowding him back against the wall for another kiss. It’s slow and lush and unbearably decadent, and John’s heart starts to pound with desire. This time they’ve no reason to stop: there’s a locked door between them and the world, and there’s nothing to stop the pair of them from doing it right here, up against the wall by the door to their flat, if they wanted.

Sherlock’s actually gripping John’s arse as though he’s thinking of doing just that – picking John up and wrapping John’s legs around his hips and rutting against him until they both come. But John has other plans, and they certainly don’t involve being picked up, and so he stubbornly widens his stance and tries to make himself as _heavy_ as possible. It makes Sherlock grin against his mouth, obviously reading John’s silent _Don’t even think about it_ , and John pulls away enough to say, ‘One last thing…’

Sherlock makes a vaguely disgruntled noise from where he’s pressing hard kisses along the underside of John’s jaw, sounding displeased with the additional delay to the proceedings, and John tilts his head back to allow him better access. He swallows, and hopes that Sherlock is going to like what he suggests. He’s fairly sure that he will, based on the available evidence. Men like Sherlock – who watch the world happening around them – have a tendency to forget that the world is sometimes watching them with equal attention, and John is now determined to apply the conclusion he’s drawn from his observation of Sherlock observing him.

Last November, before they’d started sleeping together, simultaneous attacks of a heavy cold _and_ laryngitis had put John out of action for a few days, leaving him curled up listlessly on the sofa without even a voice to complain at the unfairness of having both at once. To John’s utter amazement, Sherlock had been unusually attentive: hanging around and offering tea, soup, and his laptop, and replacing the latter with a DVD almost before John became aware that his tired eyes were starting to squint against the screen’s glare. It had taken almost two days before John realised what was happening. Sherlock had clearly decided to take the opportunity to improve his ability to read body language and was getting (John felt) an inappropriate amount of enjoyment out of observing his temporarily-mute flatmate and deducing what it was that he wanted.

After a brief flare of irritation at being treated like an experimental animal John had resigned himself to taking full advantage of it, anticipating (correctly, as it turned out) that the moment he started to recover his voice and energy, Sherlock would lose interest.

‘Sherlock,’ John begins, unsure how to phrase it before deciding to just come straight out with it. ‘Tonight, I’m not going to say anything.’

Sherlock frowns at him, looking puzzled, and John tries a different tactic. ‘Do you remember last November, when I lost my voice and had that cold, and could barely get off the sofa to do anything?’ He waits for Sherlock’s nod before continuing: ‘You kept watching me, and by the end I barely had to glance at the kettle for you to know that I was thinking about tea.’

Sherlock smiles faintly at the memory. ‘I liked it. Not that you were ill,’ he adds hastily, seeing John’s eyebrow twitch, ‘but being able to deduce someone’s train of thought just by watching them. It was interesting.’

Thus encouraged, John says, ‘Well then. Tonight I’m not going to speak to tell you what I’m imagining doing with you.’ He leans forward, so that their lips are barely touching as he murmurs, ‘You’re going to have to _deduce_ it.’

At the tickle of John’s breath on his mouth, Sherlock makes a low, incomprehensible noise and then kisses him, and John’s trepidation that Sherlock would think it was a ridiculous idea evaporates in the face of Sherlock’s obvious enthusiasm.

He licks his way into John’s mouth – making John inhale sharply and fist his hands in Sherlock’s jacket – while growling, ‘ _Yes_ ’, and the next thing John knows he’s being manhandled roughly across their sitting room and into Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock kicks the door shut behind them, already reaching for the hem of John’s jumper and dragging it up and off him. His shirt and jeans follow quickly, after Sherlock has ungraciously allowed John to interrupt his momentum enough to pull him out of his suit, and then Sherlock is kissing him again and feeling him up through his underwear. A warm palm flattens itself against his cock, not stroking but just pressing gently, and John’s hips twitch forward as he pushes into the touch. Sherlock walks him backwards to the bed and, when the backs of John's knees collide with it and he sits down abruptly, Sherlock pushes him down on his back and climbs on top of him.

He stretches out between John’s legs, grinding their erections together through their underwear, and John’s knees come up automatically to cradle Sherlock’s hips. He wants Sherlock to fuck him this evening, wants to feel Sherlock hard inside him as he’s coming, and so he pulls his knees back towards his chest and curls his hips upwards, trying to mimic the position and put the idea into Sherlock’s gorgeous, brilliant head.

It works, of course. Sherlock smiles against his mouth and says, ‘Yes, all right, but not yet,’ as he cups a hand over John’s hip and pushes him back down against the bed.

Leaving John’s mouth, he slides down his body – pausing briefly to suckle and bite gently at John's nipples, making him squirm – until John has to shift his knees wider and Sherlock is rubbing his face against the soft cotton of John’s boxer shorts.

’Off,’ Sherlock says briefly, tugging at the hem, and John clumsily struggles to comply as best he can when Sherlock is refusing to budge from between his legs.

When John’s finally naked, Sherlock leans in and runs his nose along John's newly-bare hipbone, nuzzling into the ticklish skin beside it until, despite his resolution, John yelps, ‘Stop it!’ as he writhes and grabs Sherlock’s hair.

‘Hush, you,’ Sherlock admonishes, prim voice completely at odds with the wicked smirk on his face as he gently untangles John’s fingers. ‘You’re not meant to be talking.’

Resolutely, John lets go and brings his hands down to rest on the bed by his hips, and Sherlock bends his head again. John hopes that that bit of teasing was the prelude to Sherlock putting his mouth on him, and his breathing quickens with anticipation. But no –apparently Sherlock just wants to rub the tip of his nose along the edge of the dark blond hair at John’s groin, taking his time as he traces it first with his nose and then the faintest ghost-whisper of lips.

When Sherlock finally puts his open mouth against his cock, all warm and wet, John closes his eyes and groans, sure that he oughtn’t to be this hot and bothered when Sherlock’s still just lapping softly at the base of his erection. But as he concentrates on the blackness behind his eyelids and wills his breathing steadier, Sherlock’s mouth moves slowly along his length, soft lips and softer breath, until there’s a puff of air across the head of his cock.

He drags his eyes open to see Sherlock, lips damp and slightly parted, hovering just over the head of John’s cock and breathing on him. There’s a flash of pink tongue as Sherlock wets his lips, and then he mouths a lush, wet kiss against the tip of his cock, before pressing harder. Sherlock caresses the head with his closed lips, making them wet with precome and saliva and encouraging John to rub himself against Sherlock’s mouth until he’s almost insane with desire for Sherlock to open up and let him inside. If he were letting himself talk, he would tell Sherlock to stop being such a tease; as it is he reaches down with one hand, cupping Sherlock’s jaw and brushing his thumb across Sherlock’s beautiful, slick mouth.

Clearly well aware of what John’s thinking, Sherlock meets his eyes and grins wickedly as he sucks at John’s thumb, letting it slide in and out of his mouth and rubbing his tongue suggestively against it. John’s cock jerks a little in response and he groans, pleading, until Sherlock releases his thumb and presses his mouth against John’s erection again.

This time he parts his lips slightly, just resting them against the tip of John’s cock and looking up at him pointedly, and John swallows hard as he takes himself in hand and, finally, nudges his cock between Sherlock’s lips and over his tongue. Sherlock’s hand comes up to cover his own and Sherlock squeezes his grip tighter as he suckles lightly, pushing his tongue lazily against the underside in a way calculated to make John whimper and his knees grip Sherlock’s ribcage.

After several slow, toe-curling sucks on John’s cock, Sherlock pulls back again, smoothing his hands up and along John’s sides and drawing back until his lips are once more barely brushing the tip of John’s cock, and murmurs, ‘Fuck my mouth. Go on, I can see you want to.’

Biting his lip, John reaches down to hold himself steady as he lifts his hips and carefully pushes back inside. Sherlock’s mouth is very wet and very hot, and John squeezes his eyes shut as his thighs tighten against the urge to thrust. Gently, he cups Sherlock’s head, working his fingers into the warm mess of curls, and rocks upwards very carefully, dizzy with arousal but alert for the slightest flinch or tension from Sherlock. But Sherlock isn’t flinching – he’s letting John move, fingertips tracing delicate, abstract patterns over John’s waist and hips.

When Sherlock makes a small noise in the back of his throat, John looks down, wanting to check that he’s okay. Instantly he realises that this was a mistake. The sight of his cock – hard and wet and sliding between Sherlock’s flushed lips – pushes him suddenly too close to the edge and he has to pull out, letting his hips sink back down to rest against the bed and taking deep, calming breaths. Wonderful though that is, that isn’t how he wants to come tonight.

However, Sherlock follows him down and pulls John’s cock back into his mouth, sucking him in a vague, arrhythmic fashion, and John stares determinedly at the ceiling, focussing on an old watermark that looks vaguely like the coast of Wales.

Needing more distraction, he catches Sherlock’s hand and brings it up to his face, pulling two long fingers into his mouth. Sherlock’s fingers are sensitive, John has found, and often cool and tasting of violin rosin, and as John lets them slide between his lips he wants to repeat the action on another part of Sherlock’s body entirely, while Sherlock is sucking him. They’ve never tried that particular act before but God, the idea turns him on fiercely and maybe it’s a good thing that he’s not allowed to speak, because he isn’t sure how on earth he could articulate it.

When Sherlock tries to pull his hand away, obviously thinking that John’s been wetting his fingers prior to Sherlock pushing them inside him, John clings to his wrist and refuses to relinquish it. He traces his tongue delicately along the line between first and second finger, and tightens his grip when Sherlock tries again, making him actually lift his head and frown at John, obviously puzzled.

‘What is it? What do you want?’ he asks, before instantly correcting himself. ‘No, don’t tell me.’

He bends his head to nuzzle the base of John’s cock while he thinks, letting it slide against his warm cheekbone. John moans helplessly around the fingers in his mouth, one hand reaching down to cup Sherlock’s jaw as his hips arch upwards involuntarily, silky black hair teasing the sensitive head.

 _Come on_ , he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut and mentally begging as he brushes his tongue repeatedly across the tip of Sherlock’s fingers, trying to mimic what he wants. _You’re the bloody genius… work it out. And God, please work it out_ soon…

Sherlock presses his face harder against John’s erection as it leaves a damp stripe across his cheek – the faintest tickle of beard growth making John’s toes curl – and then says ‘ _Oh!_ ’ in a voice that guarantees that John will be unable to witness Sherlock’s next epiphany without pulling his jacket across his groin.

‘Oh, you want… yes, my God, _yes_ , why haven’t we done that before?’

And then, as John had hoped, Sherlock is moving, blurring into action and pulling away from John to strip his own underwear off and lie back down next to him, his feet kicking the pillow onto the floor and his groin level with John’s face as he tugs John to lie on his side. This time, when Sherlock begins to suck him again, John leans forward and guides Sherlock’s erection into his mouth, losing himself in his taste and smell.

It’s astoundingly erotic. Sherlock jumps slightly at the first touch of John’s mouth, and John can feel the stuttering breath he pulls in through his nose. He can feel _all_ of Sherlock’s reactions: all the gasps and moans and hitches of breath that happen when John has his face buried between Sherlock’s legs and that he can usually only hear, he can now also _feel_ where Sherlock has him in his mouth, coordination slowly unravelling.

Suddenly, in what John supposes is an attempt to tip the balance in his favour, Sherlock rolls onto his back and pulls hard at John’s thigh. Startled, John fumbles ungracefully for a moment before ending up with his knees either side of Sherlock’s head, his cock back in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock isn’t holding the base as he usually does, choosing instead to run his fingers teasingly along the back of John’s spread thighs, and John is achingly conscious that there’s nothing to stop him thrusting all the way into Sherlock’s mouth. Of course he’s not going to – he doesn’t get off on choking his partners – but Sherlock’s trusting gesture renders the position strangely tender and intimate.

And then Sherlock stretches out a long arm, reaching for the lubricant on the nightstand, and John leans forward and presses an open-mouthed kiss on the head of Sherlock’s erection, his heart pounding in anticipation of what’s coming. Slick fingers touch him lightly, teasing a groan out of him, and then he arches his back as he feels them pushing into him, gently but firmly.

Still keeping his hips rigidly immobile, John closes his eyes and focuses all his attention on ruining Sherlock’s concentration. He’s doing fairly well – Sherlock’s splayed thighs fall wider still, and his movements on John’s cock become sloppier and less practiced – until a particularly intense throb of pleasure indicates that Sherlock’s found his prostate. John gasps hoarsely, Sherlock’s erection slipping out of his mouth, and Sherlock makes a pleased noise and repeats the movement. He rubs small circles around it and over it until John has his face pressed to Sherlock’s sharp hipbone, eyes closed and breathless, the only thought left in his head that he wants Sherlock to fuck him _now_.

Lifting his head, John reaches for a condom and manages to roll it onto Sherlock’s erection without too much fumbling. Freeing his mouth, Sherlock rasps, ‘Yes, all right, I can take a hint,’ before he squirms out from underneath John, who lies down on his front and spreads his legs wide, feeling open and exposed and thrumming with arousal.

Sherlock’s long fingers push more of the cool gel up inside him, making him moan helplessly and fist his hands in the sheets, and then they’re gripping his hip as Sherlock’s weight settles onto the bed behind him. Wordlessly, Sherlock coaxes him to roll onto his side, Sherlock’s chest solid and warm against his back, and nudges his uppermost thigh forwards a bit.

John moans again when he feels Sherlock pushing into him, entirely unembarrassed about his noise, his thoughts narrowed down to _yes_ and _now_ and _hard, fuck, like that but harder_. When their hips are pressed flush together, Sherlock stills and John hears him swallow shakily. Sherlock snakes an arm under John’s ribs to wrap it around his chest, catching a nipple between two fingers and making him arch into the touch, and then John gives a small cry of relief as, finally, Sherlock starts to fuck him.

A lingering kiss lands on the nape of John’s neck, followed by the warm press of Sherlock’s forehead. John knows that he’s looking down the length of his body, watching himself buried inside John, and in response John arches his back and hitches his leg up further, wanting to give Sherlock a better view. It’s clearly turning him on; his thrusts get harder and faster, making John sob and fling out a hand to brace himself against the wall.

For a few aching, transcendental minutes, it’s perfect. But when John unthinkingly reaches down to stroke himself, desperate to induce the orgasm he can feel building in his groin, Sherlock intercepts his hand, twining their fingers together and squeezing, and stops moving.

‘Wait,’ Sherlock murmurs, tickling the sweat-damp hair behind John’s ear with his lips. ‘Not yet.’

Bringing his leg down, John growls impatiently and shoves back against Sherlock, trying to communicate his displeasure at this, but Sherlock only presses a gentle kiss to his shoulder. One of Sherlock’s knees insinuates itself between his, holding his legs apart as Sherlock thrusts into him again, the sort of slow, leisurely pace that John knows he can keep up for ages.

All the foreplay has left them both fairly worked up and John would be very happy for things to progress quite quickly, but Sherlock seems to want to draw it out. Sherlock knows John’s body, as he studies it with the same sort of attention he gives to crime scenes: he knows that he likes having his neck kissed, and that the gentle scratch of fingernails over the sensitive skin of his inner thighs makes him gasp, and also that he has a weakness for Sherlock’s voice, especially when it’s rough and breathless with sex.

So Sherlock leans over him, lightly dragging his nails everywhere around John’s groin except where he really wants them, and nestles kisses along the line of his neck before muttering sweetly filthy things into his ear: ‘God, you’re so hard,’ and ‘I love making you come; your face when it takes you is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,’ and, right before the end, ‘You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel you are, you’ve started to whimper and you’re getting tighter around me.’

 _Of course I’m bloody close, you’ve been teasing me for sodding_ ages! John wants to snarl in reply. His back is sweating where it’s pressed against Sherlock’s chest, his skin feels too hot and too tight, and his cock is hard and straining against his stomach. Sherlock has started rubbing soothing circles on his chest with his palm, but only when John moans brokenly and presses his sweat-damp face into the sheets, hand tightening on Sherlock’s, does he relent.

Freeing his hand, Sherlock reaches down to wrap his fingers around John’s cock and begins stroking him, thrusting faster and harder until the bed frame starts shaking and John’s whimpers turn to soft cries that he tries to smother, mindful that Mrs Hudson is probably having a quiet evening at home.

Rubbing his thumb across the wet head of John’s cock, Sherlock mutters, ‘Look,’ into his ear, and John obeys. The first thing that he thinks, when he glances down, is that he’s not the only one who desperately needs to come. The lean thigh shoved between his own is actually shaking, echoing the tremors running through the lanky frame curled around him as Sherlock holds himself back from orgasm, but the next instant a pointed nip to the back of his neck shifts John’s attention to what Sherlock had actually intended him to notice: the sight of his cock, darkly flushed, sliding through Sherlock’s fingers, wet with lubricant and his own precome.

Half out of his mind, he grabs Sherlock’s hand, covering his fingers with his own and forcing him into the tighter and faster rhythm that he so desperately needs, while his other hand skitters against the wall, fingers curling uselessly against the smooth paintwork in an instinctive but futile search for something to hang on to. He can feel it coming, feel himself starting to shake, but he only realises that he’s begun talking – a mindless stream of _Sherlock_ and _want you_ and _yes, fuck, yes_ – when Sherlock groans, ‘God, _kiss me_ ’ against the side of his face, desperate and pleading.

Blindly, John turns his head, helped by the insistent press of Sherlock’s thumb against his jaw. He finds Sherlock’s lips even though he can’t really kiss him, not properly; all John can do is gasp nonsense into his mouth as, with a last slide of Sherlock’s thumb over the tip of his cock, he comes. Thanks to the long build-up, the pleasure of it is almost excruciating and John can’t help crying out, his cock jerking and pulsing messily over their joined hands as his stomach muscles hitch tight and he curls in on himself. Or tries to – he doesn’t get very far before Sherlock’s arm tightens around his chest, holding him steady through it while he mutters words of love against John’s forehead that will make Sherlock’s high cheekbones flush when he’s reminded of them.

When John has finished, panting and feeling as though he’s just been shattered into pieces, Sherlock lets go of his cock and wraps his arm around John’s waist, moaning shakily into the back of his neck. It only takes a few more jerky, uncoordinated thrusts before Sherlock makes a broken noise and stills, shuddering and clutching John tightly. John is in the wrong position to hold Sherlock through his orgasm, but he reaches back clumsily and grips Sherlock’s thigh in breathless encouragement, feeling the lean muscle twitching and jumping beneath hot skin.

Finally, Sherlock goes limp and boneless behind John but doesn’t pull away, preferring to rest his forehead against the back of John’s head as they both gasp for breath. John lies there in a blissful haze, feeling air alternately warm and cool across the nape of his neck where Sherlock’s ragged breaths ghost over his damp skin, and the gentle pressure of Sherlock rubbing his nose against his dishevelled hair.

While it was true that John had woken with Sherlock’s face pressed into the back of his neck on the morning after their first time, it had taken several more occasions before he realised exactly what Sherlock was doing.

‘Are you _smelling my hair?_ ’ he had blurted, too amazed to even think about being tactful.

Sherlock had tensed, and then very deliberately relaxed, and said, ‘No,’ with a bored sigh that had sounded just slightly exaggerated.

‘Really?’ John had craned his head, trying to see Sherlock’s face. ‘It felt like you were.’

And in reply Sherlock had tersely muttered something about pheromones and olfactory cues and forming pair bonds. He hadn’t moved away, but he hadn’t done it again. After a week, John had sighed inwardly, made a resolution about future tact when asking Sherlock that sort of question, and decided that forthrightness was called for.

During a Bond night, he had got up to make tea and, when he returned to the sofa, had sat down next to Sherlock. _Right_ next to him and leaning against him, head supported by Sherlock’s (prominent and frankly uncomfortable) collarbone and pointedly near Sherlock’s face.

‘John?’

Sherlock’s arm had settled around John’s shoulders reflexively, but his muscles were taut as though poised for fight-or-flight and John leaned back harder to keep Sherlock in place.

‘Well, go on then,’ John had nudged, when Sherlock remained frozen.

‘I don’t…’

‘My hair.’ John had tilted his head to look up into Sherlock’s face, and said amiably, ‘I didn’t say I _minded_ when you were doing it, did I? And anyway, it’s sort of relaxing.’

Deliberately, John had turned his attention back to the television as Sean Connery ordered a martini. A few minutes later, when Sherlock’s mouth had settled gently against the top of his head, John been forced to bite the inside of his cheek to stay suitably casual and stop a triumphant grin.

Now, Sherlock has lost the few inhibitions he ever possessed about the act; he rubs his face against the back of John’s head like a big cat, and when John shifts position slightly Sherlock unwinds the arm cinched tight around his chest and moves it for John to rest his head on, reaching for John’s outflung hand and pushing his fingers between John’s lax ones. Sherlock likes the sight of his own long, narrow fingers twined with John’s shorter, blunter ones; he said once that it was ‘aesthetically pleasing’ and the words had stuck in John’s head, since it had been the closest Sherlock had ever come to anything even remotely complimentary or romantic, at least before this evening.

Sherlock’s breathing catches when their bodies eventually separate, and the mattress dips for a moment as he leans away to dispose of the condom. He manages to do it without dislodging John, and then the next moment he resettles himself against his back, long shins tucking themselves against John’s calves as their feet tangle companionably.

After a few minutes, during which Sherlock starts to trace delicate, ticklish circles on John’s hipbone, Sherlock murmurs, ‘Did you know that the name “Valentine” comes from the Latin word “valens”, meaning worthy or strong? And that the romantic associations of Valentine’s Day only started in the Middle Ages?’

Sherlock’s tone is his familiar, slightly lecturing one, and it makes John want to tease him, just a bit. So he almost asks, _Is this Valentine’s Day according to Wikipedia?_ , until Sherlock continues, ‘He was martyred by beheading, and apparently one of the miracles attributed to him was that of restoring sight and hearing to the daughter of his jailor.’

Bloody hell, it really _is_ the Wikipedia article on Valentine’s Day, or something very like it. John should know – he’d looked it up and read it himself when his own mental countdown to the fourteenth of February had begun and he’d been panicking over what to do with Sherlock.

It’s strange but lovely to find that John clearly isn’t the only one who was nervous about this evening, and that Sherlock has made the effort to do online research rather than dismissing it as irrelevant nonsense. John’s so captivated by this thought that he almost misses Sherlock saying, rather confusingly, ‘The jailor’s daughter reminded me of you, a bit. But backwards.’

 _Hang on_. John opens his eyes and frowns at the wall in puzzlement, but he gets there eventually.

‘So… you’re saying I make people deaf and blind? That’s a bit crap, for a doctor.’

‘Stop being _dense_ ,’ Sherlock says against the nape of his neck, managing to imbue the three words with all the impatience that he usually requires ‘You lower the IQ of the whole _street_ ’ to communicate. He rests his chin on top of John’s head and really, John thinks as his heavy eyelids close again, he ought to rouse himself and protest about this, because he might be the shorter one in the partnership but he wasn’t a bloody _midget_.

But protesting feels like too much effort. He’s tired from walking all over London, and warm from the success of the evening and also from the long body curled behind his own, and when Sherlock rubs his chin against the crown of John’s head and mutters, ‘You make it all _stop_ ,’ John winces slightly in sympathy. He’s can’t fully understand what it’s like inside Sherlock’s head, but he imagines it’s no place for the faint-hearted.

But John also knows that Sherlock will disdain any offer of sympathy, and so instead he catches the hand that’s still tracing aimless patterns on his hipbone and feathers kisses over the delicate skin on the inside of Sherlock’s wrist as he asks, ‘What else did you learn?’

‘Well, he’s the patron saint of couples in love,’ Sherlock murmurs against John’s hair, hugging him gently and making John turn his head to plant another kiss on the arm beneath him as he hears the words that Sherlock’s isn’t saying.

‘But then,’ Sherlock continues, sounding faintly critical, ‘apparently he also looks after beekeepers and plague victims, which is enough to make one suspect that these things are just assigned at random.’

This surprises a full-throated laugh out of John, his body shaking, and he can feel Sherlock’s answering chuckle against his back.

‘You’re amazing,’ he says, when he’s got his breath back, feeling giddy and drowsy and hopelessly, stupidly in love. ‘Never change. Please.’

Extending a long arm, Sherlock stretches over for the bedside lamp and fumbles the duvet up over both of them while still managing not to pull his other arm out from under John’s head or untangle their fingers. In the darkness, as London roars on unheeded outside their window, Sherlock’s arm winds around his waist. Sleepily, John turns his head to kiss him one last time, and Sherlock whispers, ‘Never,’ against his mouth like a promise.

\--End--

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Together in This Place](https://archiveofourown.org/works/801013) by [innie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/pseuds/innie)




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